


Something More Alive Than Silence

by ParadifeLoft



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a side helping of smut, Aromantic allosexual character, Canon-Typical Distorted Thinking and Unreliable Narration, Dialogue Heavy, Other, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Self-Hatred, Trauma/PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 13:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/pseuds/ParadifeLoft
Summary: Finally unveiling your new persona at the museum gala hasn't made anything simpler between you and Ortega, even just meeting for coffee. Or, for that matter, retracing any other paths the pair of you had walked down before.
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> How do I go from writing nothing for nearly a year, to cranking out over six thousand words about these two disasters in a couple weeks? Go figure. The power of a sudden freefall into Fallen Hero obsession, I guess :P
> 
> The first chapter is a modified & expanded version of a piece previously posted on tumblr.
> 
> Title is from Vienna Teng's "Between", because I'm an incurable angstmonger.

It’s been a week on the dot since your fight when Ortega calls and asks you to meet for coffee, and you can’t help but wonder whether being out and about like that means she’s fully healed by now or not.

Of course the Rangers can get people back on their feet pretty quickly when they’re motivated, and coffee is hardly on the same level as being back on active duty, but you remember them always being a little leery of letting injured members out of sight for too long if they could manage it. Especially when it was more than one at a time; especially with new and unpredictable threats running around.

From the conversation in the hospital with Alex that already feels like an age ago, you’d guess her invite comes from wanting to talk over her worries with a _trusted friend_ \- and doesn’t that pull a twinge of emotion that you’d rather not dwell on right now... But really, if she wants something more on the personal side rather than the work one, well, you wouldn’t want to bare your soft underbelly to any of her current teammates, either.

And of course, the old Ishvah would never have avoided her in a context like that. Wouldn’t have even stayed away this long, seeing the reports of how badly she’d been hurt in the museum fight, but you’ve already started turning over excuses in your head for explaining when you see her.

Because you can’t very well _not_ go, and truth be told, you don’t even really want to. You’re still bruised and sore enough to wince and regret it each time you return to your own body from Alex’s, but the drunk adrenaline of the museum’s “opening” night has already moved on just like the front page news cycle. The new set of anxieties that’s replaced it is less fun, and being around an actual friend for a bit, even if you have to put on a mask, sounds like a welcome respite from all the weights and calculations churning in your head.

So you slide into the chair across from Ortega with a mug and a pastry - is this the second time in a row she’s been on time at the chosen destination before you? - and put a look of nervous but genuine concern on your face as she greets you with a tired smile.

“I have to admit, there was a brief moment there where I wasn’t sure you were going to show,” she says, sounding light enough for the actual words of her comment. The lines around her eyes suggest the cheer might be a bit forced, but it could just be the general stress of the past week; you aren’t quite sure enough to say.

You don’t mention any of that though; simply gesture toward the table in front of you. “And pass up the opportunity for coffee?” you say. This time around, without the thundercloud threat of your upcoming debut hanging over your head, putting on an innocuous act yourself should go much more smoothly.

“Well, at five pm, I worried it might be getting a bit late… Figured I’d bet on you not shying away from it anyway, though. And it looks like my gamble paid off.”

You have to admit you hadn’t noticed before she brought it up - your sense of the time-appropriateness of a fair number of activities has definitely gotten looser lately - but now that she has, it seems obvious with how few people there are to infringe on your senses in the shop with you. But on the other hand - should the oddity of _Ortega_ being the one suggesting coffee in the evening be a cause for concern? Is she trying to stay up to unhealthy hours, even if she’s tired and for all purposes really ought to be resting?

Or you suppose maybe she just ordered decaf.

“Honestly though,” Ortega adds after a moment, looking a bit sheepish and hesitant, “with how adamant you were about being retired… I just hoped you weren’t going to assume I wanted to meet to ask you for more help now that we have a new villain threat loose in the city.”

The surprise you respond with to this doesn’t need to be faked; amid all the other pieces you’re juggling right now, the idea that this meeting might have been about bringing you in to work on catching, well, _you_ \- that’s as far from your expectations as the initial realisation that Ortega actually wanted to you to help Lady Argent had been.

You shake your head. “I just wanted to see that you were okay,” you say, playing up the naive, out-of-the-business friend that should cover, you hope, for how you’re look her over for signs of what injuries and how much of them might be lingering. “I would’ve come sooner, but I didn’t want to bother you since it seemed like you might all have a lot on your plate…”

There’s a pause, and then a slightly wistful, self-effacing twist of her mouth that she half-hides behind a sip of coffee. “Seeing you is never a bother, Ishvah.”

Your stomach twists and you goggle for a split second before busying yourself with your own brimming mug, brushing off the comment with a casual shrug. “Well, like you said, I’m not looking to get too comfortable at the Rangers’ base.”

“I suppose these new developments have put me there more often than not lately,” Ortega replies with a faint laugh. Does her expression turn guilty for a fraction? Hard to tell.

…almost ironically amusing if she _would_ feel guilty spending time in a place you had no desire to linger in, all because of the threat your new identity poses. But at the same time, the idea sounds… good? Now you’ve set your new life off without a hitch, spending a few moments practically basking in the care someone would show for your comfort, rather than panicking and deflecting, doesn’t seem nearly so threatening. For the first time in years, the pull you feel welling up for her to touch you doesn’t fill you with an immediate desire to scrape your skin raw.

Hah. Mortum must have really outdone himself with those additions to the suit if its effects could be this powerful.

Best not to think too hard about that now, though. “So, um,” you start again. “Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?” You nudge the conversation back towards more stable ground, before raspberry jam explodes on your tongue with a large bite of pastry.

Ortega sighs, glancing out toward the rest of the coffee shop. “Well, I’m not really sure where to begin, to tell the truth. I _am_ worried about shaping the team up to fight this Iconoclast person, even if it’s not technically my job to be the leader… I’m worried about what they’re after and what they want to destroy to get it, too. I don’t know if you saw the news - they said some things that sound just plausible enough to be dangerous if this is some revenge thing, but if they’ve got a grudge against the government? People like that have a way of getting a lot of innocent people hurt.”

You keep your face schooled in mild, interested concern, even if inside all you feel is contempt at the idea of anyone you might hurt truly being _innocent_. “In my experience, villains acting out of revenge instead of just being a random megalomaniacal asshole tend to have a point, though. Even if their methods suck,” you remember to add at the last moment.

And the look on Ortega’s face makes it clear the last sentence saved it, too. “You can say that last bit again,” she mutters, frowning into her coffee. “Making a point of destroying symbols of hope and history, for a city that’s suffered as many setbacks as we have? It’s honestly just insulting. Not to mention the years of money and work the city has spent, completely wasted.”

The sneer escapes onto your face before you can head it off, the sudden surge of anger in your chest slipping through into your words. “I don’t see how much _hope_ a mausoleum for a bunch of lies is supposed to give anyone,” you retort, before you can think better and contain yourself. “From everything I read, that museum was mostly concerned with appeasing the rich and powerful, and keeping the status quo all just the same. I’ll pass.”

You’re not even sure how she can _believe_ what she’s saying still, how some part of the truth hasn’t managed to leak its way out after all these years, and maybe that feeling is enough of an excuse for how far you’ve let your mask slip so quickly. How even now the worry is only twitching in the back of your skull rather than overwhelming you.

Ortega’s naivety has always been the thing that frustrated you most. How she can think any of this - the hero programs, the ‘charity’ galas, the carefully curated media feeds, the secret government initiatives - is about an end goal any more noble than simply _control_?

But she manages somehow, you can only guess, from how she looks at you funny, almost taken aback. “You would have had an exhibit in there, you know,” she says. As if that would affect your opinion somehow? “As Sidestep, I mean. It didn’t look half-bad; I saw it before all the explosions started. I know that’s not your life now, but I’d hardly call it a _lie_, would you?”

God, if only she had any _idea_. You rub at your eyes, anxiety finally trickling through the haze of bitter anger to make you acutely aware of how dangerous this conversation has gotten, and by your own fault. You still need to keep better control of yourself than this. You _need_ to.

You push your chair out a bit and stand, leaning forward heavily on the table. “Look, I really shouldn’t keep you for so long,” you mumble, avoiding Ortega’s face. She follows you after a few seconds’ hesitation, and joins you on the further side of the table.

“Hey, whatever you were feeling before - whatever you were feeling that made you want to quit, that doesn’t mean the good we did back then was a lie, okay?”

She takes your arm, and before you can think to react her own arms are around you again, pulling you in.

There’s no time to laugh at how a moment ago, you’d wanted this, before the squeeze of the hug turns too tight too quickly against the nastiest bruise on your side, and pain explodes along your ribs and back. You just barely hear the breathless whine that jumps out of your throat as you flinch away, and then just as fast as she’d hugged you, Ortega lets go.

“Ishvah?”

She’s still too close, hands cupped around yours as the shock pulses through your system. “It’s nothing,” you answer reflexively, buying a second or two for the water to recede from your eyes and your brain to scramble for a suitable explanation for what was pretty obviously a pained yelp.

“…I ran into a car the other day.” It’s the first thing that pops into your mind; not ideal, but at the moment anything would do. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. Or apparently listening to the traffic.”

If the look Ortega gives you is horrified, at least it’s not the horror of realising you were the one she and the rest of the Rangers fought underneath Iconoclast’s suit.

“You ran into a _car?_ -”

“I’m fine, don’t worry, it wasn’t bad, there’s just some bruising,” you interrupt quickly, before her voice can rise too much. “You’re probably hurt worse than I was; it’s really not a big deal.”

She cocks an incredulous eyebrow. “Not a big deal. Do you have any how many fatalities are associated with car crashes? Please tell me you at least got checked out by a doctor.”

You almost laugh; you haven’t voluntarily seen a doctor once in your entire life. Not that she knows that. “Hey, with your career track record, if I’m the kettle, you’re the pot.”

“You are absolutely impossible, you know that?”

“Steel’s mentioned it once or twice.”

“You did not just compare me to Chen -” Ortega’s eyes widen in feigned offense.

“Hey, last I checked there were a few similarities… You’ve both been Marshals; you’re both full of metal; you’re both getting old…” You yelp slightly for real this time as you dodge a punch Ortega has aimed your way.

A fizzle of confused annoyance in the back of your awareness has you look up to notice the barista behind the counter with a mildly uncomplimentary expression turned your way.

Watching you sober down, Ortega follows suit a moment later.

“We should probably not wear out our welcome,” she says with a rueful look on her face. “Except now I don’t think I trust you getting yourself home in one piece on your own in the dark... Guess I’ll just have to bring you back to my apartment with me.”

You can’t help your startled blink at the comment. “_Your_ apartment? Is that some sort of line you use?”

Her arms cross, features pinching a bit with embarrassment. “I don’t exactly know where you live to bring you back to _yours_, Ishvah.” You hadn’t exactly been serious, but was that closer to the truth than you’d assumed? You can’t imagine there’s a large pool of injured car crash victims for Ortega to meet and use it on, if so.

“I’ll keep it that way, thanks,” you reply lightly. It gets you a flash of a microexpression you can’t place when you don’t have a pulse on the other person’s thoughts.

“Fine then, as you want.” She hesitates for a moment, then, “It’s really not a line, though. I would just… appreciate it, if you kept me some company for a bit, is all.”

Had you been expecting to do something in particular with your evening tonight? You can’t quite remember.

You suppose if it’s not an anxious weight sitting on the back of your mind, it can’t be all that immediate. Ortega’s request has more gravity to it. (As it always did.)

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Her car isn’t the same one you remember, but it feels familiar nonetheless.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse! :D ...well, briefly better (?). But then definitely worse.
> 
> ...not even going to lie, Ishvah is really a shameless self-insert, if I were, uh. Less self-aware and semi-stable. That's what fictional supervillains are for, right?
> 
> Content note for this chapter for brief passages of suicidal ideation, and a pretty unhealthy approach to sex & sexuality.

She reaches her hand out to your chin slowly enough that you have no plausible way to deny understanding what's coming. And you let it happen anyway. Let her put her mouth to yours, with a hesitance that's asking, is this okay?

\- the answer in the sensible part of your brain that wins you fights, keeps you alive, is absolutely not.

You kiss her back when she lands anyway.

Was this what you’d expected to happen when you got into her car? When you followed her up the stairs to her apartment? For all you’d poked fun at the request, as if it were intended as the second half to one of Ortega’s dates - no, no it wasn’t.

Not least because you’d hardly been encouraging any of the same flirting with her you’d liked to play at when you were both heroes, now. Not in this body, at least.

And as far as you could tell, tonight Ortega had been acting on the same level - offered you a portion of the food she went to heat up for dinner when the pair of you arrived; talked through worries about the status of the Rangers over the meal while you offered generic sympathetic noises (and filed away the details for later); been mostly kind of distant, if you were honest, seeming half-lost in thought even if she was otherwise friendly enough.

And then she’d asked you to go find something on the television while she cleaned up, and joined you too soon in the living room with the TV yet untouched, because you’d gotten distracted looking through what had changed or stayed the same since the last time you’d been in her house…

(Seven years seemed like nothing when you were the only constant you had to compare the flow of life around you to. In here, now, it just looked like a reminder of the absurd farce of normalcy you’d tried to create, kept far beyond its shelf life by nostalgia. Another reminder of what you’d always be on the outside of, while things you tried to care about moved on without you.)

She’d stood too close from the beginning, though you’d been lost enough in your own thoughts that it didn’t register right away. Mostly silent, offering a teasing quip about the TV not turning itself on, but not following up when you’d just shrugged… The backs of your forearms touching, side to side; hers bare with rolled-up sleeves and yours hidden under fabric as always.

And now this.

Her mouth is on you, warm and soft and seductive; one hand cupping your jaw and the other at your wrist. The parallel response of your own lips and tongue are intuitive enough, as is the instinctive melting of tension and thought into unexpected momentary pleasure, but what to do with your hands is another matter.

Ortega touching you often enough had become familiar, and then unfamiliar again - but you'd hardly ever initiated. Touching another person yourself was a reflex more at home for you in a fight.

Which is most of what the two of you have done recently, isn't it? Even if she doesn't know half of it. Doesn't know half of the friendlier moments either, for that matter - you might have been slipping too close to being Ishvah, too far from the role you’d set yourself, but those flirtations still happened while you were wearing Alex's body, not your own.

A stab of sudden clarity makes you ask how you ever could have talked yourself into thinking that idea was worth the risk. You laugh, just an edge bubbling up before you can stop it, but it slips out - sounding too bitter, too something, because Ortega starts to pull away.

Her head may sound like static, but she’s apparently still worn an imprint into your mind anyway, because the feeling of her movements alone telegraphs second thoughts and caution. You catch a glimpse on her face a second later: the one that always flashes through when she’s about to pry.

If any tendrils of relaxation creeping into your head were trying to remain, that clears them away easily. Because fuck, no, this is the exact wrong time for any conversation while you’re both underguarded and thinking about everything she doesn’t know -

(Last time you thought you could stay aloft in a conversation with Julia Ortega, stay in control and keep it all on your terms, you crashed and burned spectacularly.)

Impulsivity rather than calculation has you close the gap she’s opened instead, surging forward before she has a chance to think. (You wish you knew what she was thinking, and at the same time right now you really don't.) Clutch at her shoulders almost like pinning her arms at her side as you distract by kissing her again, open-mouthed, a little sloppy. Hasty, panicky - good enough. A second of hesitation, but then she doesn’t seem to mind.

You're not really sure what you're doing, exactly, but you have a general idea from other people, from television and novels. Not much personal; none sober.

(Aren't you a bit too old for that? sneers the voice in the back of your head. Being this inexperienced? Maybe it was excusable when you were twenty, but why she'd want this from anybody now - ?)

But apparently Ortega is just as blind to that as half the other things you've fought about lately. Her hands come up to tangle in your hair as she kisses you back; you can feel the smooth, powerful muscles in her arms move, and the combination sends flutters through your stomach. Her entire body is pressed up against yours. Warm. Solid. You might as well be overheating in comparison.

You almost lose your balance a moment later when she tugs you forward, brain taking a second to sync up to the rest of your body. But you catch yourself, and allow her lead, bringing you with as she takes a few steps back and down onto the couch. This time the fraction of an expression you catch is a hazy grin, like if a satisfied cat could look that bright.

Your guts do a flip-flop at the sight of it, liquid heat pooling in the pit of your belly.

Fuck, she has to know what that damn grin does to you -

\- only heightened by the sight of her fingers ensnaring the collar of your shirt, pulling you in -

The slightest hint of sound on a shaky inhale reaches your ears before you realise it came from your own voice. Your face has to be burning now, trying to keep some kind of composure even with how obviously futile it’s becoming (you’re welcoming it become). Your knees have sunk into the plush couch as you kneel above her - straddling one of her muscular thighs and acutely aware of the hairsbreadth spaces between the pair of you. Teetering on the terrifying edge of demolishing those spaces.

Her lips move down the line of your jaw, your throat, making you shiver slightly and think about the edge of teeth joining them. And you still can’t decide what to do with your hands that doesn't seem either too forward, or else too laughably prudish. It wouldn’t be a problem if you could read her thoughts, but of course you couldn’t have made this easy on yourself. Of course not.

(Made it easy on yourself doing something you shouldn’t be in the first place? But you ignore that. You’ve stranded yourself so far out already; going back is out of the question.)

Ortega hardly seems to have the same problem with knowing how to touch you. (Of course she wouldn’t.) You’re still holding onto her shoulders when she slips down to grab handfuls of your ass, with a suddenness that makes all the blood between your legs pulse and leave you dizzy, frayed and slippery and fuzzy-headed with want. Your hips buck forward without any real conscious thought, and your voice is a stuttering trail of half-sounds against her shoulder.

There's a hot, exhaled breath against the oversensitive skin below your ear, that turns into a sharp, deliciously painful pressure of her mouth a moment later. Hips shift below you to trap you flush against her thigh. Ortega murmurs something next to your ear that you're not quite present enough to understand.

It would be a bald-faced lie to claim you'd never fantasized about this.

But fantasy has few of the risks of actually acting on the sort of desires you've tried to ignore, and now that you can't ignore them, they've effectively flooded out all the usual reminders you've set in place for what a bad idea this is, either. Stars jolt through your body as you can't help but squirm against her leg, ashamed and embarrassed at how little control over your own body you have in the moment - if not enough to outweigh the instant addiction and make you stop.

Maybe it's the loss of control, inhibition, everything you normally swear by, that emboldens your hands to find her breasts; your lips to dip past the open buttons at the top of her shirt to taste the skin below. Ortega swears with a startled gasp as your tongue flicks against her collar; your own cheeks flush even hotter with her reaction. Hard to shake the bone-deep knowledge that you were never made to be doing this… But it's like the flip side of your fight at the museum - how intoxicating it feels to be actually respected, to make her react to you, to command attention.

You can’t just give that up.

And when you press one of your own knees in closer, leaning into the juncture between her thighs, the moan you're half-shocked to feel vibrating against the hollow of your throat in response only heightens that intoxication.

Has she wanted this too? For how long? It's hard to square this here and now with the instinctive dismissal you feel at the notion.

And it’s all distracting enough that, for the first few moments, you're barely conscious in noticing the new, additional sensations of Ortega's palm implants grazing against your hipbones. Hard ridges under the skin glancing against one another, followed by the soft pads of her fingers clutching at the flesh padding around them. And then the chill of air tickling the naked skin on your back, uncovered by cloth.

Panic jams into you like being thrown into a wall, snapping shut on the delirious careening out of sense and sanity you'd been riding on.

You jerk away from Ortega's grasp fast enough that she makes a surprised noise; your frantic hands shake almost as much as your legs as you tug the hem of your shirt back down, clumsily disentangling yourself from the awkward kneeling straddle until you can plant feet on the ground, take a few steps back.

She hasn't seen anything. Her face was angled in an entirely different direction, busy with plenty else besides looking at your briefly unclothed form, you're pretty damn sure.

She hasn't seen anything.

Doesn't make you any less stupid, reckless, utterly out of your head for even letting it get this far -

(Last time anything vaguely similar happened, you wore your skinsuit underneath civilian clothes as a matter of course. Hardly something you can do now. Is it ironic, your new identity compromising you in something this ridiculous, useless - )

Ortega's looking at you with her brows knitted, concerned and evaluating like she's worried she's done something wrong, even as you can assess almost clinically how the flush of arousal hasn’t faded from her face and body.

"I'm sorry, that was careless of me," she offers, as soon as your eyes meet; her voice is impressively soft and level. (You can still catch a bit of tension anyway.) She holds her palms up at her sides. "I got a bit… well, it doesn't matter. I apologize."

Apologize? As if she even has anything to be sorry for?

In the oversensitive cage of your ribs, your heart gallops with a whiteout haze. And your mouth isn’t quite working right - you try to speak, and all that makes it out are a couple of tripping nonsense syllables.

"We don't have to go any further than that if you don't want. I got a bit ahead of myself, but if you're not ready, we don't have to. Ishvah? Are you alright?"

The usual nervous laugh comes out more like a wheezing giggle. Or maybe more like the screech of helium being let out of a balloon, because the sound propels you a few steps back as it escapes. There is approximately nothing in any part of your life that could be feasibly described as all right.

Ortega’s hand touches your forearm, warm, solid pressure, and your subconscious notes the difference from a similar sensation (callous, sharp, tight, grabbing around your wrist even as you struggle) quickly enough for you not to bolt. “Hey, Ishvah. You’re okay, you’re safe here. Talk to me.”

Talk? What’s there even to say?

You pull away, wrapping your arms around yourself and making a pained, toneless hum as you stare down at the floor. Even noticing the dull, solid socks you wear compared to Ortega’s feet bare against the soft rug makes you hate all this a little more.

“I don’t know why the fuck I’m doing this,” you finally spit out, your voice harsh and grating, turning it into a curse. Forget that it probably sounds like an insult - hell, maybe it’ll finally get her off your back for good and you won’t have to deal with any more of this.

Any more of wanting, and knowing you’ll never, ever be able to have what any normal person takes so blithely for granted.

From the carefully neutral expression on Ortega’s face, she seems to be avoiding jumping to the worst conclusion, at least. Or should you be upset at that? How she seems less interested in taking the bait you dangle before her lately?

“Well, I suppose I had my own assumptions,” she replies after a moment, “but if that’s not right, if you want to try and talk through it…”

“I don’t mean like that,” you almost growl. Frustration and the exhaustion of passing panic are shredding any ability you normally have to modulate your words. Because oh, yes, if her assumptions are anything like what you’d think, she’s pinpointed you with a disgusting degree of accuracy.

You don’t even know what you can say to get yourself out of this now.

And yet she just stands there, waiting patiently. Manning the siege towers. Smoking you out.

“What is it you want to hear then, huh?” You stall, as much as you’re able. Anger? Misdirection? A mix of truth and lies? “Yes, I want you to fucking bed me, just like everyone else you’ve ever goddamn smiled at. But I’m through with being overshadowed and disposable. It’s not going to happen.”

Finally, there’s the indignant flare in her eyes you’ve been digging for. And behind it, a fraction of surprise? At your admission?

“Is that what you think I do to people? Is that what you think I’d do to you?" she says, voice hardening. "After dancing around our friendship, trying not to step on your toes or push you too hard toward something you weren’t comfortable with?”

You just stare her down, not saying anything else. You don’t trust yourself to say anything else. Not with the aftershocks of panic still jolting through your system.

“But half the time I can’t even tell what you’re thinking anymore, you know that? One minute you’re warm and friendly, and the next you’re acting like you never wanted to be friends with me in the first place. You kissed me, and I understand if you’re nervous, if you’re not sure about something; I'll support you in that. Because we are friends. But I'm not going to sit here and let you put all the responsibility on me for whatever your damage is. It doesn't work that way."

You almost laugh again, with the irony of how neatly she's caught you out. Last time the two of you fought, you straight up left - because all the support she wants to offer, can only end in one thing.

And her words unwittingly have the truth of it. You are damaged. You cause damage. You're like a goddamned wrecking ball to everything caught in your path, and at this point it's because you've chosen to be. Because all the structures that need to be demolished are worth the collateral damage to anything else in your way.

Friends? Lovers? They're luxuries that you, even reinventing yourself, will never be able to afford. That you ought to know by now how to live without.

(That right now you want so badly that it tastes like blood coating your mouth.)

Maybe if you actually gave a fuck about Ortega more than your own damn self, you should have just given up and died when you had the chance.

(Not that you can ever really run out of chances for that.)

But she's still looking at you as if waiting for some sort of answer, for you to account for yourself somehow. Thinking of this entire situation only in terms of the mundane concerns that relationships are made up of in anybody's world but yours.

You rub your eyes hard enough to see phantom colors, dragging your hands down your face to try and snare back fleeting portions of composure.

"Look, the truth is, it doesn't matter what I want." Your voice is admirably flat as you stare at Ortega, gaze level with her own. "I can't do this. I'm not fucking cut out for it. I shouldn't let you kiss me like I can just pretend. I can't be -” Can’t be what? What one explanation could sum up the total of all your can’ts?

Your gaze falls away, down to your open palms that you close into fists, and still cannot grasp what should go at the end of that sentence.

Ortega purses her lips as the silence lengthens.

"Have you considered that maybe I don't care?” she says finally. There’s an accusatory edge to her voice that she can’t quite hide. “I know you don’t do that whole ‘dating’ thing. I know you’re not as comfortable with touch as I am. And maybe that’s fine? Maybe I just want you, not some version of you that's the same as everyone else?"

It’s hard not to feel anger tensing your body as you hear her say it. Of course you’ve considered the most predictable ending to every rom-com that even you and your cultural malnourishment have absorbed by general proximity. Considered and rejected, because you’ve certainly seen the limits people have when it comes to those sorts of naive sentiments. Limits like ‘being a person in the first place’.

Revulsion toward the idea of ‘a relationship’ would be a minor test compared to the real problems you’ve buried. (If it wasn’t practically an exposed, flesh-stripped limb indicating said poorly-done burial in the first place.)

You shove your hands into your pockets. “You really don’t know what you’re promising when you say that. It’s not that fucking simple.”

The next line that comes afterward in this well-rehearsed act of yours is always “Well then talk to me about why not.” You’re well aware of it from all the other times your conversations have gone down this path - of course, she should be aware too that the answer to that is always just going to be no.

It’s the stupid, pointless loop you always find yourselves in, futile as another one of your dreams.

But Ortega doesn’t take it this time.

“Ishvah…” she murmurs, looking away from you, stepping away from the spot in the middle of the living room that she’d rooted herself in to defend since the pair of you had abandoned the couch. She paces slowly toward the kitchen, collecting a few used dishes and scattered papers to set in more appropriate locations. “Look, it’s never simple to promise that for anyone. I like to think I know that better than a lot of people. But it feels like… maybe that was something you promised me, once upon a time.”

She raises a hand to interrupt the protest building in your throat - revealed either by the indignant expression crossing your face or just by simply knowing you well enough to predict it.

“Not in so many words, no. But you... you were someone who was there for everything. You saw all of me, even the parts that weren't flattering for the television clips or the mission reports. And even with all that, you stayed. And you weren't asking for anything in return besides just… me. Being there. There's not a lot of people I can say that for, do you get that?”

It’s too hard to meet her eyes when she pauses to look back at you.

“So maybe it ultimately is selfish, sure.” She continues regardless. “But I don't… want to have to see you killing yourself again, just because this time it's happening slowly."

The taste of metal in your mouth. You know it’s not blood - yours or someone else’s - because iron is specific, distinct. This isn’t that - but it’ll turn into it soon enough. Soon enough, if time stops stuttering.

Ortega’s voice, terrified, in the background.

You bite your tongue, hard. “I’m not.”

(It’s true. Each day of this is the opposite; the choice you make instead of the other option, to just stop.)

“Maybe not intentionally.”

“I’m not.”

“All right.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say to convince you it’s the truth.”

She looks you over, with something like concern, and you’re suddenly self-conscious of your mussed hair, the skewed pull of your clothes. The slightly rumpled look of course just looks good on Ortega. “It’s not really something you say or not,” she replies softly.

“Convenient for you.”

“It’s really not.” She sighs as she crosses the room again, sitting down near you at the edge of the coffee table. Far enough away to keep you from retreating instinctually, but close enough that she can take your hand where it hangs halfway out of your pocket.

You don’t take it all the way out, but you don’t pull away either.

“Hey, look, I’ll admit I made some decisions tonight that weren’t the smartest.” Ortega tilts her head to look up at you from the side; you can’t help but think the comment could apply to you just as well. “I guess I’m not quite out of that patch of woods the way I thought yet.” She gives a fragile, self-effacing laugh that you recognise as a peace offering. “But I’m not looking for another fight tonight, honest. Is it too late to turn back to some dumb TV?”

Despite yourself, the question makes your subconscious decide to bring up a flash of another memory, a night maybe eight years ago with another television, playing something utterly unimportant to cast bright highlights and dark shadows over the two of you making out on the couch, knocking stray empty beer bottles off the armrests and the table.

Not that you think this would devolve the same way, if you told her yes now. Ortega might be a persistent battering ram of a woman, but nothing would have happened to begin with if you hadn’t closed your eyes and run with dangerous, delusional impulses. And you still feel shaky enough now, weak enough with dissipated adrenaline, that the thought of anything as intense as sex has entirely withdrawn its appeal.

Going out to catch a cab back home also sounds like more than you want to deal with now, too.

So you close your eyes and take in a breath, and force up an approximate smile to at least show her you’re trying. “TV works,” you say.

Ortega joins you on the couch, and takes up the remote; you curl your knees into your chest and trace one finger over the pattern embroidered on the nearby throw pillow.

As your head fills with the distracting sound of the television, the scent of the cushions enveloping you lulls your hindbrain into the memory of calmer times.


End file.
